


Under the Influence

by seekingmoonscapes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Fic, Drunk!Sherlock, M/M, Pre-Mary, drunk!John, implied porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingmoonscapes/pseuds/seekingmoonscapes
Summary: ...And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.





	

John

Sherlock was made to be under the influence. The wine glass bobs gently in his hand as he dances, eyes closed and head swaying to some concerto playing in his head. The prim dress of the evening has been abandoned; his jacket falling open, the sleeves pushed up, making folds around his elbows. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and though his tie is still tied, it’s been pulled loose, the knot hanging low.

His long feet pad out the tempo as he swirls around the room and John watches from the armchair, oddly entranced, until he suddenly stops. His eyes alight on John and he smiles.

“Come join me.”

“I don’t know the music.” John answers quietly.

“Don’t be foolish, everyone knows the music.” He holds out his hand and, for some reason, John allows himself to be pulled in. An arm circles his waist, drawing him close so Sherlock can rest their foreheads together. “Like this.” He whispers as though divulging some great secret as they begin to move.

“Sherlock...”But the protest dies on his tongue when those piercing grey eyes shut and Sherlock hushes him, his breath a warm, soft breeze across his skin.

They dance until the score in Sherlock’s mind rises to its final crescendo.

-

Sherlock quivers beneath his touch.

The empty wine bottle rises proudly from the tumultuous sea of paper sprawled over the coffee table beside them. Somewhere a dutiful clock marches on; a metronome to the symphony John was teasing from the skin of Sherlock’s bare torso.  His ribs are the strings, played pizzicato, his madness plucked in a jaunty tune. His stomach is the drum, a strong, steady beat of a secret heart. The burning kisses along his collarbones are the trumpets; his brilliance and strength swelling through his melody until it’s deafening. But then the flute, the gentle whisper of fingertips down the sinew of Sherlock’s arms, cuts sweetly through the surge.

John closes his eyes and just listens.

 

Sherlock

The bed yields beneath them, its soft creak lost beneath their shallow, broken breathing. Dark, crushed curls mar the white of its pillow as two mouths press together. There’s no skill in it but it’s the touch; it’s the __connection__. Sherlock sighs and gasps as fingers work him open; twisting, sliding and tracing intimate patterns inside of him. They break all that’s left of the tight tendrils of control he had so long ago wrapped around his mind.

Gentle hands and a pleading voice urge him onto his knees. With his arms curled uselessly in front of him, he hides the raw, broken self playing across his face in a pillow as he gives everything to _his_  John.

-

The morning always comes; even to those who lie in bed and pray it never will. Sherlock’s thumb follows the groove beneath his eye, the contour of his cheeks and the bristled edge of his jaw.

He wonders if he can keep this one.


End file.
